An Ode to my Dinner, which was so untimely cremated

And here's how it happened...

Aromas wound through the kitchen, light glinting of windows and tiles. Superfluous ingredients lined the many cupboards: jams and jellies, sawdust and sardines, lentils and the odd hairy leprechaun. At the center of the kitchen sat and oven, this conceited second sun simmering and sheeting at the heart of the room. I, Peggie Leggie the Third - peg leg and all - was going to cook, cook a chicken. Despite my many failed prior endeavours which lined the inside of the oven, hunger was a fantastic motivator and I felt driven to succeed.

The chicken sat on the counter before me, this featherless biped, this pathetic excuse for even the most minute echo of humanity. I fling upon the recipe book, it's spine cracked and worn like earth in a draught. My finger slid along the parched paper as it came to rest at the instructions. In retrospect, I was surprisingly unfazed by the horrific lack of instruction which the book graced me with, however my mind was clouded with incessant thoughts of roast chicken.
As such, I lathered the chicken with a generous amount of olive oil, turned up the oven as high as it would allow me and poped it in, washing my hands of the enterprise. It did occur to me, however, that it had slipped my mind to bequeath a name unto the chicken. I felt this was an integral part of mastering the culinary arts, and so tipped my chin in prolonged thought.
"Bartholomew?" I muttered to myself. I turned away from the counter, talking my fingers incessantly. "No, that name is not at all suitable. Frederick the fourth... But who is Frederick the third? It wouldn't make any sense..."
I tugged at my hair in exasperation, and decided perhaps my mind would be clearer if I sat down and had a moment to think.

I clunked my way into my living room and flopped down onto the sofa, posed - inadvertently - like one of those french girls. As I led there in thought, the upholstery became warmer and more inviting, and my eyelids grew heavier and heavier. Slowly, ever so slowly, I fell into the grasp of sleep. My only thought before I succumbed entirely was something to do with not putting on a timer...

BANG

I gasped as I jolted awake at the sudden noise. This was a horrible idea as smoke immediately filled my lungs. I was pulled underwater into a sea of smoke and soot, drowning with my first gasp of air. I looked about me but my eyes were watering so profusely I could hardly make out a thing.
Sugar Plums! I thought to myself. This was a major pickle to find oneself in.
I mustered up the courage and pulled myself up off the sofa, breathing through my shirt. From what I could remember of my home the front door was to the right, and the kitchen was to the left.
As I quickly checked the directions using my hands I saw the root of my problems. The kitchen, which was in fact on the left, appeared to be the new and improved version of Dante's Inferno. Smoke was billowing out and hands of charr and ash were clawing their way out of the doorway and along the floor. I began to edge my way towards the front door, furniture around me beginning to bubble and blister in the awful heat.
I stepped forward and momentarily lost my balance. As I waited for the world to stop haphazardly spinning I looked down and saw my peg leg burning. No! The Genesis of my identity, the source of my name and who I am! It was ablaze! I frantically swatted at the flames but to little avail. I rushed forwards towards the door, my resolution reaffirmed. I was not going to let this sacrifice be in vain.
Slowly the front door emerged from the smoke, it's peeling paint and rusty handle serving as a panacea for all my ills. I grasped the lukewarm handle and flung open the door.

A cool breeze flooded me as I flopped forwards onto the soft spring grass of my front garden, coughing like a fish out of water. I breathed in and out as fast as feasible possible, clawing my way towards the main road away from my house.
I was hit like a lorry with a moment of awful realisation.

The chicken!

I had left it to be completely and utterly incinerated, an untimely cremation without even a name. The name!
"Craig?" I asked myself frantically. "Collin? Zephaniah? Amereigh?"
I groaned in desperation as i raked my brains for any kind of possibility.
I sat back upon my knees and looked up towards my burning house. Smoke was winding up into the sky from every orifice and flames were crackling and burning from within.

Smoke wound through the garden, flames glinting off windows and metal frames. Varieties of flowers hung about me: dandelions and daisies, roses and rhubarb, foxgloves and fugly-looking mushrooms. Before me sat my house, this conceited second sun, seething and simmering, like a broken heart. I, Peggie Leggie the Third - singed peg leg and all - had failed to cook. Cook a chicken. I should have listened to my many failed attempts and sought counsel in them, instead of making such a foolish decision on an empty stomach.

And, after all that, I was still hungry.